


M is for... Memories

by TrueMyth



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Masturbation, Post-Episode: s04e17 Beacon of Hope, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueMyth/pseuds/TrueMyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity finds it hard to stay angry with Oliver, in the aftermath of Brie Larvan’s assault on Palmer Tech.  Especially when she is alone in bed that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M is for... Memories

 

It takes a few weeks before Felicity lets herself think about Oliver again.

Okay, obviously she thinks about him all the time, for frack’s sake. She just got home from helping the team put away the Queen Beeotch, Brie Larvan, and cleaning up the lair, and he was there in his black undershirt with his arms, and his sad eyes, and his stupid leather pants. But she’s worked with that Oliver for years now, and she long ago learned to compartmentalize _that_ Oliver and the effect he has on her concentration and her body.

If only her heart is as easy to shove aside.

Felicity wiggles her toes under the 400-thread count sheets they bought together while feathering their nest in Ivy Town. They hadn’t spent long picking them out, all the while teasing each other about the _use_ to which they would soon put the sheets. Five minutes later they were paying for the first set they could grab, eager to reach home, and privacy, and _each other_. She looks up at the exposed beams of the last bedroom they shared with a sigh, and then curses herself for staying here when he moved out. She reaches for the anger and the hurt that have formed protective scar-tissue around her heart these past weeks and sighs again when it is nowhere to be found.

Instead she sees his face when he rushed to her side to ask if she was hurt, and later vowing that she would never -- _never_ \-- have to thank him for coming for her, and she squeezes her thighs together to quell a growing ache.

Her sex life in Starling was never stellar, even before she took up with Team Arrow, but the past year had more than made up for it. Even during the paralysis, Oliver had been so kind and attentive. Now all those nerves were tingling, buzzing, aching for him. She could see him now: his broad shoulders parting her knees, stubble rasping the delicate flesh of her thighs, the glint in his blue eyes both devilish and devoted as he glanced up to grin at her before parting her folds with his strong, archer's fingers and nuzzling, kissing, licking her labia, circling closer and closer to her center.

His aim was always true, but he knew the worth of never heading straight for the bull’s-eye in cases like these.

Felicity pushes up her t-shirt with one hand, stroking her rib cage, teasing the cotton over the tips of her nipples in the way that always made Oliver groan, deep in that Arrow-only voice that felt so good against her flesh. Her other hand slips beneath the elastic of her pants, brushing her curls, floating briefly across, gathering drops of moisture before running down her thighs. She remembers what it feels like when Oliver finally, _finally_ licks her clit and her hips thrust upward on their own as she twists her t-shirt to her neck, looking down the valley of her breasts to the aching void between her legs.

She whimpers, allowing her fingers into the slick folds, soothing the ache. Her thumb finds her clit with ease, presses, circles, flicks in a syncopated rhythm. She holds her hips steady, imagining Oliver’s warm hands spanning them, pressing her to their bed. She slips her lower fingers inside herself, never able to go quite as far as Oliver, but it’s okay, it’s okay. Fuck, is this more than okay.

Her eyes are closed, her focus fully on the sensations building below: on the taste of the sweat she licks from her upper lip, on her memories of what Oliver tastes like after a workout, on her memories of his smell still on their sheets, on the memories of his dedication to eating her out until she can’t remember anything.

She remembers everything.

She wants it, hovering just beyond her as she begins to buck beneath her fingers, slight twitches she can’t contain.

“Oh,” Felicity moans, biting her lip, arching her feet into the soft, silky sheets.

“Please,” she begs the air.

“Mmmm…” She grinds her slick fingers into her clit, reaching around to fill herself with two fingers, curving for deeper penetration.

It’s not enough. There’s not enough _there_.

She twists, scrambling for the bedside table, grabbing the little pink vibe from its pouch and switching on, not caring what else she knocks to the ground in the process.

She thrusts it downward, too much at first, and forces herself to calm down.

_”Show me. Go slow for me.”_ Felicity remember’s Oliver’s voice after a long day of unpacking, their first night in the loft. He’d found the little rabbit vibrator and had _an idea_. It was such a good idea.

Felicity remembers his darkening eyes, the blue like electric rings ‘round full-blown pupils, as she knelt naked in their bed and brought the vibe to her mound. Now she concentrates on that memory, slowly working the vibrator over her flesh, teasing her opening, letting sounds drop from her mouth with as little sense as they had on that night. They both knew what they meant, how he made her feel. She moans again, finding her rhythm again as her mental-eye slides down the remembrance of Oliver’s body, coiled at the foot of the bed.

His arms, his shoulders, his ridiculous abs played with the shadows and light of the bedroom. The golden hair on his glorious thighs shone just dimly enough that it couldn’t distract from his raging hard-on. He wanted her so badly, yet he held himself in check. That control was so fucking sexy, and she wanted to be the thing that broke it. Broke him. His muscles on muscles tensed as she sighed his name, so she does it now.

“Oh” turns to “Oliver,” turns to “OLIVER!” as the vibrator hits deep now and she screams her climax.

The syllables echo into the void of the empty loft.

Felicity takes a minute to let the vibrations in her own body peter out. She opens her eyes to see the same exposed beams, but smiles slightly this time. That had been nice.

That had been more than _nice_ , but it was nice to know that she could still think of Oliver without pain. In the end, they have had so many more good times than bad. Even some of the bad times have been pretty great. She doesn’t know what the future held for them, but even the present isn’t that horrible.

She rights her PJs and cleans up, setting the vibe out for cleaning, returning the small green book and glasses case back in the table drawer, then turns off the light.

 

\- - - - -

On the roof of the building across the street, Oliver watches Felicity’s light wink out before taking off across the rooftops to finish his sweep. Tonight he’d allowed himself the indulgence of checking up on her after they’d dealt with that mad woman.

He wonders briefly when she installed curtains in the bedroom, feels a pang at not being able to see her snuggling down to sleep, but he reflects that they might have been a good idea earlier in the year. The facing building did have a great view, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Legends of Flarrow: International Masturbation Month 2016.
> 
> Much thanks to coffeewithsunshine and hellopoe for giving the story a once over. I hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
